Loss
by Megan R Henry
Summary: Eomer was eleven when they lost their parents. Anger has festered ever since.


Eomer was eleven when they lost their parents.  
Until this age, he had always been a relatively calm and cheery boy, eager to please and to follow in the footsteps of his father. It was his birthright after all, that someday he would take over as third marshal of the Riddermark. He would be tall and strong and one of the best warriors, he had already decided. Perhaps not the best, for father and uncle and of course Cousin Theodred would still be better, but he was determined to be almost as good as them at the very least.  
Like many in Rohan, he bore the long blonde hair and swarthy skin, weather beaten from the many hours spent out in both sun and rain either training or looking after the horses and dogs. At some times, he had even been allowed to join his father in a hunt for meat and he had bore back his first prize proudly only a few weeks before the revelation had arrived.  
His younger sister Eowyn was seven, and much to the amusement of their parents, and Eomer's sometimes disgruntlement, she seemed more eager to follow him in learning the ways of the sword and spear instead of taking to the more ladylike crafts that the women of the court tended to work with. They passed it off as a phase, saying that she would grow out of it, but if Eomer knew his sister, he knew she was stubborn, and she would not grow out of this so quickly.  
He had been training when the news came. Their father had been away with the eored, as he often was during those days, and so it was not too much of a surprise for the siblings when they did not return on time. It was rare that Eomund was ever home whenever he promised to be, although that did not prevent his son from keeping an eye out hopeful that he would soon return so that he could put on a show of what he had learnt in the past days with the sword master.  
So naturally, when he heard the familiar sound of horses' hooves, he rushed from his lessons, booted feet pounding against the stone work as he appeared out in the courtyard. He could see the eored easily now, the flashes of colours, of greens and whites and browns. Eyes darting, he searched for the familiar sight of his father, a frown darkening his young features when he could not catch sight of him. It was only as they grew closer that horror permeated his face as the vision of his father- no! That could not be his father- carried amongst the few remaining who did not seem to be marred by obvious injury. He could see the helm now, bloodstained and dented, the metal even split in some places.  
Forcing his mouth shut, he pushed his sister behind him, having felt her come up to him only a moment before. His hands shook but he couldn't let her see this. It could not be. This had to be some form of a joke. Any moment now, Eomund would sit up and laugh at the looks on their faces and call them silly, and it would be a story they would tell for years to come, of how he had so easily fooled them. But Eomund did not sit up, and it did not take a fool to see that his chest was not rising and falling with breath.  
A scream shattered his frozen mind, his head snapping around, and his reflexes were only just quick enough to catch his mother before she fell. She clutched at him; sobbing violently and he could do nothing but hold her, refusing to let the tears trickle down his own cheeks. He had to be strong. He had to be strong.  
Eomund was dead. Eomer was now the man of the house.

Theoden came a week later. By then their mother was dead.  
She had died from grief, they had said, having confined herself to her room and when her son had found her, she had already been desperately ill. He had tended to her, doing all he could, but little could be done for the king's sister. Within a few days, she succumbed, and Eomer had woken to find her cold and still. He had had to be forcibly dragged away from her corpse, screaming and kicking and fighting against any who tried to hold him back from his beloved mama.  
When Theoden arrived, they had succeeded in confining Eomer to a room with his sister. The small girl had not said a word since her father's passing and she would go only to her brother, seeking shelter in his arms and sobbing into his tunic. That was where Theoden found them, curled up together; Eowyn sheltered beneath her brother's cloak and passed out from exhaustion, his arm around her as he stared blankly at a wall. Green eyes rose to meet Théoden's, and the king was shaken by the emotional turmoil behind eyes so young. Anger and hate and despair were clearly visible, churning violently. These days had truly grown terrible for one so young to lose so much. How could he comfort him?  
The next day held the funeral. As the nearest female relative, it fell to Eowyn to sing the lament, and Eomer had to hold her to even give her the strength to remain standing. The moment she had stuttered out the last note, she had turned and buried her face in his chest, clinging and sobbing, and yet again, he said nothing.  
They were to move to Edoras, too young for Eomer to take his father's role and remain in Aldburg. Instead they would be put under their uncle's care until they were grown and old enough to assume the duties of their blood. Each was allowed to choose a belonging of their parent to keep as a token of memory. Eowyn chose a simple necklace, although one which had been passed down the females in their line for many generations. Eomer, after more thought, took his father's dagger, as well his ring which had also been passed down many generations. It was too big, but a chain was found and it was hung around his neck until he might be old enough to bear it.  
Quiet though she may be, Eowyn seemed to settle somewhat into her place in Edoras. Much to the disgruntlement of others, she still practiced with a sword; however she did so in private, out of view and in the nighttime, remaining subdued and hidden in the daytime.  
Eomer however was another tale. While he too was quiet, he seemed to do anything but settle in. The once cheerful boy turned sullen, and he glowered at all who passed. He challenged any show of authority, particularly from his uncle, and broke any rule that he cared to. He slept not in the room provided but in the stables, curled amongst the hay and the hunting hounds.  
Eventually he had gotten into trouble with the local swordsmaster, and was as such dragged in by the ear into the main hall, settling a scowl onto his uncle's face. The moment the man let him go, the irritated boy pulled free, bolting down the corridor away from them all, and for almost the first time since he had arrived, he graced the room given to him with his presence, although perhaps not in the way it had been intended. He slammed the door shut with all his force before turning and unleashing his fist on the wall with a fierce cry. Over and over again, he let his feet and hands connect with the wood, until a strong pair of arms dragged him back, pinning his arms to his side and preventing his movement. A sweep of the room and he supposed it must be Theodred, for Theoden was looking upon him with a fiery gaze.  
"What do you think you are doing Eomer?"  
Silence.  
"Answer me, boy."  
"...I was attacking the wall, uncle."  
The words were fiercely spat out, and the eleven year old raised his eyes angrily, fists clenched by his side, stubbornly holding his uncle's gaze.  
"And why would you do that? Hmm?"  
Silence again as dark green eyes were lowered to the ground.  
"Show me your hands Eomer."  
Hesitation and eventually he raised his hands, showcasing the knuckles, bloody and torn from his assault on the walls and furniture. His shoulders were trembling, a movement so faint that few would pick up on it, but Theoden did. He called for bandages and some ointment, and without another word, personally bound the wounds. Every so often, Eomer would raise his eyes warily, judging and untrusting, a look that broke Théoden's heart, as he realised just how much his nephew had been broken. Once the tending was done, he motioned for his son to release the boy before pulling him into his arms. At first Theoden felt him stiffen but after a moment, Eomer relaxed, and the king could feel the dampness seeping through his tunic from his nephew's tears. It was the first time he had seen his nephew cry since his arrival.  
There was still little he could say or do to comfort the boy except hold him, and assure that he was not alone. And he would try his best perhaps, over the years, and yes, Eomer did become more manageable, if only just. His temper, on the other hand, was still fiery and sometimes harsh, but he was reliable. There would be no better to serve as third marshal, just as his father had done before him. He would serve and fight for Rohan.  
And he would not cry again, not until the day he found his family on the battlefield and hope had fled his heart. And no one would question that, for all knew of what he had lost.  
Too much.


End file.
